Yes, she says, and Bucky casts a concerned look over his shoulder. But the alien woman looks impassive, still curt and businesslike as she tends to that sword, with the same kind of attention-to-detail and conscientiousness he used for cleaning blood and dirt out of the cracks in his arm.

Gamora doesn’t sound worried, so he probably shouldn’t be worried, but.

“Canned rations are meant to be eaten. They’ve been here a while, so they’d probably expire otherwise.” He’s still rooting around in the back of the cupboard, his right hand finally closing around some cold metal… and it turns out it’s just one can of soup, and there’s a disappointed twist at the corner of his mouth, an answering hungry rumble in the pit of his stomach. He sets the can on the kitchen table between them.

It’s a one-bedroom place: he’s been loath to infringe on her privacy, so Gamora has the bed and the private room, while Bucky sleeps on the sofa. He’s a little too tall for it, and the cushions are lumpy against his spine, but he’d quietly taken the couch anyway.

He’s staring at that can now, considering. Politeness means he doesn’t want to send her hunting for sustenance, but the hunger is sharper. He looks up, his blue eyes meeting hers.

“You’d go out hunting with… what, with that?” he asks, nodding to the sword.

It’s a very nice sword. It’s just, y’know, not a rifle; he’s accustomed to animals needing to be hunted long-distance, with a bullet between the eyes.